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It’s Not Complicated

Yes. That is what you think it is. And if you know me as well as my bestie does, you’re probably having a reaction similar to her’s: gasp in mid-sentence, “Who are you!!??” Considering I lost my parking decal because I didn’t want to permanently affix it to my car, a bumper sticker “decorating” or “desecrating” Princess Grace Kelly warrants a dramatic reaction. I mean, have you seen her? Beautiful pearl white with cream leather interior – she is indeed a portrait of regal beauty in automobile form.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate a good bumper sticker. In fact, I am the person who makes them dangerous because I drive dangerously close to the car in front of me so I can read its bumper. I build stories in my head of what the sticker reveals about the vehicle’s owner. And I can glean a lot of information from those stick figure families people insist on sticking on their cars. Now that’s dangerous. But the point to fix your attention on is that I prefer those sticky statements on other people’s bumpers. And up until now, the only thing intentionally adorning Princess Grace Kelly was the pearl necklace and black bow tie hung around the rear view mirror – she does have to live up to her name, after all. The parking decal only became a permanent fixture after a lovely breeze carried the original off the dashboard and out the window.

Then, why this? Why now? No I didn’t join a crossfit cult, as some of my friends are prone to think. The truth is I made a commitment. I set a goal. And as the months wore on, I found myself less committed to my commitment. As the numbers on the scale remained steady and the inches around my waist clung on with firm resolve, my goal oriented behavior became less… goal oriented. So on Friday, having missed more workout sessions than I attended for the 4th week in a row, I knew drastic measures were needed.

Thus, I branded my car.

I want people to know that about me. I want them to judge me when I drive through the Chick-fil-a line because I’m too lazy to make the salad I have at home (and we all know I’m not going to Chick-fil-a to order a salad). I want to see the unbecoming adhesive on PGK’s perfect exterior every time I walk Oreo in the morning so I don’t make an excuse to go back to bed. I want to look in the mirror at my SLOWLY changing body with more determination than my stubborn flesh and know it was worth it. It’s not complicated, really. It’s just my own form of public accountability.